


The Shadow of the Valley of Death

by vaingloriousactor



Category: Assassins - Sondheim/Weidman
Genre: Assassination, But also, Cults, Don't Shoot Me, GIANT WARNING FOR LITERALLY ALL OF THESE PEOPLE, Gun play, I know it's trash, I'M AN OLD SCHOOL FIC WRITER, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Manipulation, Oh Look Another Trashy Assassins Fic, Other, Religion, dear god i made that tag, does 'cult member' count, don't like it don't read it, i can't believe i'm writing fic of my favorite musical, i will go down in history as the person who wrote the gun play assassins fic, yeah it does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-19 23:04:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11323575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaingloriousactor/pseuds/vaingloriousactor
Summary: Oh look another Assassins fic. Here I explore the nuances of the characters' relationships with religion, their pasts, and each other, again particularly focusing on Booth and Squeaky's friendship. But also Booth/Lee because I am such trash for that ship.





	The Shadow of the Valley of Death

**Author's Note:**

> You wanna mention how tasteless this is? Cool, don't like it don't read it. Again, I am aware of the problematic subject material. I am aware of how awful these people are.

The doe-eyed woman seems to stare at her from the screen as she sits and struggles in the chair utterly unable to tear her gaze away.

 

“I wasn’t there! I wasn’t there! Why are you doing this to me?” She pleads and hopes the proprietor in the projection booth can hear her. “I was at the ranch that night. I didn’t know. Please.”

 

Her eyes begin to well with tears as she and the blonde in the film lock gazes. Only when the credits roll can she whip her head back to the chair where the man in the suspenders sits, chuckling at her distraught state.

 

“We’ve made you watch this film before,  Fromme. Do you just keep remembering?”

 

“Maybe you shouldn’t do that.” The voice at first is disembodied, a soft, almost pleading sounding from the shadowed corner and she finds herself put instantly at ease. “You don’t need to torture her with Ms. Tate any longer.”

 

The proprietor rolls his eyes but does not comment further, climbing down the stairs and disappearing back out the door.

 

“What did you do to aggravate him this time, Lynette? He only pulls out the movie for you when you’ve gotten particularly under his skin.”

 

She’s surprised when the figure crouches beside the chair and removes his hat and smiles, if not pleasantly then encouragingly.

 

“I didn’t do nothin I swear! I was just mindin’ my own business like I do and in swoops the Proprietor all high and mighty and he starts askin’ me about Charlie and the questions started getting more aggressive so I spat at him like any thinkin’ person would do!”

 

She’s a bit indignant as she speaks, crossing her arms, blowing a strand of orange hair out of her eyes. The man sits back in the theater seat beside her, making himself comfortable, and bounces his hat on his knee.

 

“You know, there was once man who was just as stubborn in the face of authority as you are. Would you like to know about him? His name was Jesus Christ and I think you’d like him a whole lot!” He smiles and she shakes her head fervently.

 

“Nuh uh. That’s not what Charlie said. Charlie knows what he’s talking about. He is the real deal, y’know.”

 

She’s met with a sigh but he never took no for an answer.

                                                                                                                        ****

_She clutches the sand and stares out at the ocean. She had never seen a purple ocean before, not that she was entirely sure if it was actually purple. It sure did look purple though.  She felt Linda sit next to her, as transfixed by the waves as she was. Linda didn’t laugh but she did._

_That joyous noise._

 

_She had tasted the wafer, that sweet communion, felt it on her tongue as the whole world shifted around her._

 

_This was devotion. This was true holiness._

                                                                                                                    ****

 

“It never did occur to me such a place as this would exist. We do not believe in such a place in the religions of our fathers, do we? I always took comfort in the deliberate lack of both heaven or hell. Never the religion, but the lack of a beyond.”

 

Booth is met with the brusque acknowledgement of the other man, stooped on one of the benches furthest from the glow of festivity, the red fake velvet suit jacket, slung over his shoulder jamming the bottom of his sign post into the dirt. Sam then processes the words of the man in the suit, really processes them.

 

“Religions of our fathers? You mean to me you’re a--”

 

“Attention has been paid.  In truth, my father was. Never really saw the merit in the religion myself. Still don’t, I suppose, now that we’re all here. My sister did. My brother to less of an extent, but not to my levels of shunning. He scraped away the Hebrew on our grandfather's grave and replaced it with a cross. I do remember that.”

 

Sam snorts and John, for the first time, realizes it’s their first amiable interaction.

 

“Whole family back east.  Practically widely accepted to be one.  Guessing it wasn’t like that in your day.”

 

John sits on the bench and crosses one leg over the other, the effeminate affectation of which makes Sam’s brows arch up.

 

“My father often spoke to the rabbis and I pretended not to know him. A beloved friend of mine, the synagogue’s biggest supporter and donor, always strove with all her might to urge me to join. I never did. I don’t believe she ever forgave me.”

 

“What’s the world to do with the knowledge that John Wilkes Booth was a Jew?”

 

“His father was. Very important distinction.”

 

“Nah, like it or not,  in this day and age we think that counts.”

 

It’s John’s turn to laugh and he does for just a moment.

                                                                                                                       ****

The Proprietor gave him a free pass one day to see someone from life.  And the room he leads John to is far different from the carnival scene. Instead, it is simply a room, at once barren and comfortable, two plush chairs, a loveseat, a coffee table and nothing more. The walls are brick with a fireplace that crackles only slightly.  He’s surprised when the Proprietor leaves him alone to sit on the red chair with the faded cushion and he can’t help but shake the sense that this is what home once felt like.

 

He looks up when the door opens again. Her face looks exactly as he remembered it. Age had not drawn his claws along her eyes and lips. He rises. She walks closer and faster and each step is tense as if she is holding herself back from running. They are separated only by the coffee table, no longer by dimensions and punishments.

“How long has it been?” Are his first words to her.  Time is linear where she is. Or, at least, more linear.

 

“Over one hundred and fifty years, Johnnie.”

She sighs. Neither of them sit.

“Is that so?”

“It gave me time to think and think and think. I lived with fractured memories of you, happiness tarnished by your deeds. But a century is a long time.”

“A century.” He repeated. He thought of the figures who shared his space, men and women who followed in his lead, scattered throughout the decades.

“I’ve missed you, Johnnie.  Oh how I’ve missed you. If I could bring you home to Papa and Edwin and June. Even your nieces and nephews.”

 

She steps around the coffee table, walking closer and he finds that he falls into her arms. She closes her eyes and they sink to the floor.

 

He cries. For the first time in what must have been one hundred and fifty years, bellowing sobs escaped his lips and shook the room.

“I’ve got you. I’ve forgiven you. My baby brother.”

 

“Asia.” He can only make out her name before he cries again and the two of them sit there, crumpled on the floor.  Once the fire dies out, the Proprietor re-enters and motions Asia toward the door.  With a kiss to John’s forehead she takes her leave and the actor, the assassin, the man is left sitting.  The Proprietor, as always, takes some pity on him and sits on the couch, waiting patiently for John to speak up again, at once a manifestation of John’s darkest impulses and distanced listener.

 

“I won’t tell the others you aren’t the grand, suave influencer you pretend to be.”

 

John allows himself to wonder what Heaven is like.

                                                                                                                     ****

She lets him talk about God.  She sits cross-legged on the bench, barefoot, sipping out of a fountain drink cup that Moore had procured for her while the older man talks about Samson and Delilah and the power of seduction.

 

“But what if Delilah did love him?” She chirps and he sends a questioning look her away.

 

“Do you not see that i tis the power she held over him that enabled him to let her take hold? It’s not about love, Fromme. That kind of seduction is the Devil’s work, not God’s. Love, that’s God’s power, that builds you up.”

 

She thinks about Samson for the rest of the day.  She thinks about holiness and devotion and what it was like to be devoted to Delilah and what it was like to be devoted to God.

 

“Did Delilah ever play God?” She asks the preacher and his eyes light up as if he realized for the first time she was truly listening to him.

 

“She didn’t have to. Samson already believed it.”

 

She recalled shaving her head in front of the court house. And she recalled how everyone stared.  But the end was nigh and her savior would rescue them all.

 

Catching a glimpse of herself in the funhouse mirror, she was grateful her hair was long.

                                                                                                                         ****

Occasionally he would attend Bible discussion sessions, positioning himself in a circle with various acquaintances and friends and strangers. What people would remember was that he was quiet during those times.  In truth he was never quite sure why he attended them.  He would write to Isabella who would reply with curt letters in her cursive script pleading him to “visit the next Friday you are in town.”

 

He never did.  And one Friday, instead of attending the synagogue, Isabella went to the theater, watching John from the wings with a bemused smirk.

 

“So this is your holiness.” She kissed his cheek and ruffled his hair.

 

“And I see you’ve come to worship here, yourself tonight.”

 

“My husband finds it the better option.” Her voice was quieter with each word.  He was about to reply when a small girl, no older than five years of age, sprinted off stage upon curtsying to the audience, a silent doll-like role, leaping into John’s arms with a single launch.  He chuckled, crouching to the floor, ruffling her hair.

 

“You were very brave out there today.” He told her and her face illuminated as if she had been blessed by a god of theater. He looked up at Isabella who stood there still.

 

“Perhaps next week, Johnnie. I know your father would be pleased to hear you attended. I told the rabbi you were to play Shylock and he bid you talk to him. He remembered when your father did the same.”

 

“The religion is not my own, Isabella. I do believe our Gods are different.”

 

She took  his hand and kissed his rings, the tiny actress watching intently from his shoulders.

                                                                                                                      ****

In life, he wanted a family.  He asks the Proprietor, one time, if the young only went to Heaven, or if there was a chance, some shot in the dark, that he could be a father, and, if there was some other skewed chance he could be husband to whichever fellow ghost is just as lonely. And the Proprietor only laughs.

 

“The whole point of this place is that you don’t get Heaven, Johnnie boy.”

He chuckles darkly and Booth, out of routine and loneliness, buries his face into the pillow.  This is not marriage and  Booth does not want to confess that, in this ritual, he feels like Lynette, except without the fervor and worship. Bare and worn down. How the Proprietor turned down all affection until the lights were dark. How isolating it is to be the secret of the night, even as the main sidekick of the whole place. Or so he told himself, he was. When Booth feels the Proprietor’s hands, he wonders  what would have been different if he got a chance to keep on living.  Would he have had that domestic happiness?  And he thinks about Isabella whom he loved always.  Admired her endlessly. And he wonders that, even though she insisted she was too old for him, what would have happened if she had divorced her husband and married him. And he wonders, further, if Lucy, bewitching and charismatic as she was, had not been so perturbed by his views, had married him like she said she would.  And Fanny. And Maggie. And Isabel. And William. And Davey. Their names swim through his mind as he continues to feel the Proprietor’s breath, reeking of whatever cheap alcohol they had at the carnival, on the back of his neck, just beneath his head, where he was shot just like his victim. With that devilish man’s breaths, John feels the wound reopened.

 

“To think you could find love here. You might be my right hand man, Johnny, but  you’re still an assassin.”

 

                                                                                                              

 

                                                                                                                       ****

His arms are thinner than those of the Proprietor and that’s what John realizes he thinks about the most.  In life, he was not quite a “home-wrecker” as Moore had phrased it when she saw Booth stagger out of a mostly shut-down dark ride after the smaller man one time.

_“I’m not a ‘home-wrecker,’ he’s dead. I’m dead. His wife is somewhere in the world alive with a new husband. Shall I also note the hypocrisy of your statements?” He spoke and she flicked a gum wrapper at him and swaggered away, seemingly pleased she got in a jab at John._

“You reckon he knows?” His accent is heavier in his hazy, half-awake state and John can’t help but find the cadence that is far more at home in New Orleans than Dallas charming.

“This is his realm of course he knows. Doesn’t give a shit.” John staggers to the mirror he insisted the Proprietor allow him to install in the attic room, hair uncombed. The delicate curls spring up with a mere combing effort.  It is the mustache that requires more effort and while he molds it into place, John feels the man’s stare, piercing into his soul through the back of his head like a bullet. He raises his gaze, still in the mirror, to meet the eyes of the man still on the mattress, barely supported by the unstable frame, behind him.

“He won’t do anything?”

“For a man certainly not highly regarded in the domestic sphere, you’re certainly nervous about the Proprietor’s anger.  Fret not, the only reason you would meet his wrath would be if he were to catch the ghost of the Balladeer in your eyes.”

The title ushers a chill into the room.  Booth buttons his waistcoat and the other man fumbles for the crumpled white t shirt on the floor.  The lot of them seldom uttered the word “Balladeer.” Johnnie did once before, when Lee had first arrived, first slept in that attic bed.

_“God judge me.” He had muttered to the Balladeer when they were alone in the barn when the Balladeer had first made himself visible._

_“Are you a believer?” He, the very human embodiment of American hope, itself, leaned in as John lay crumpled on the floor in pain._

“Are you a believer, Lee?” John turns properly this time to look at him, his eyes lighting up in a daredevilish fashion.

“The hell does that mean?” The other man kicks the blanket off his legs to sit up and John only chuckles.  

“Gun.” He holds his hand out and Lee catches a glimpse of the faded blue lettering on the actor’s wrist, a remnant of his former life. Still only in the t-shirt, he hands the small derringer over, which Booth promptly pockets. “I must confess, I did not know you were so fond of incorporating the gun.”

“Shut up.” Lee replies, moving back towards where the jeans lay on the floor as Johnny dabs his wrists and neck with cologne as if he were not dead, as if he were not spending an eternity in limbo with the same people, and as if Lee did not spend the night holding a gun down Booth's throat between choked kisses and gasps, grabbing at each other in the suffocating air.  He was a kind, genial man in life, or so his friends said decades after his death. But the two entwined in bed in angry passion. John puts on his air of gentleman (as if his voice was not coarse from their yells ) as if he was on stage was Richard III once more. The critics did say he was too impassioned. He smoothed his coat sleeves as if he did not love Lee in a manner that was raw and almost beastial.  

“I will see you at the fairground. Bumper cars, I presume?”

Lee says nothing else as he shoves his way out.  Booth wants to steal a kiss. A tender one, like he was in life.

_“I was a believer.” He managed to reply to the Balladeer. “I am going to Hell.”_

 

******

Lynette finds him again, having ducked out of one of Guiteau’s preaching sessions. He staggers out of the building not long after Lee, just soon enough that the redhead arches her brows.

 

“What are you sneering at, Fromme?”

 

“Fromme! Is that where we’re at now! I was Lynette just last week." She paused. "Should I go?" 

“I established before I have no problem with your company.  Did the Proprietor make you watch ‘Valley of the Dolls’ again like he said he was going to? I can urge him to stop that particular punishment.”

 

“Guiteau stepped in. Funny, huh? We’ve been talkin’ about Jesus, Jesus Jesus, not Charlie Jesus.” She chirps. “Patricia converted in prison, did you know that? I’m Charlie’s girl so I’m not, but it still got me thinking.”

 

Booth doesn’t even feign surprise. He’s genuinely shocked that Squeaky was considering branching out her “religious” interests.

“How about you, Johnnie? Heard you got to see your sister. How’d that go?”

“My sister who art in Heaven.”

Lynette tries to process his words and leans against his arm.

“And Lee? I’m not stupid, Johnny.”

“I know you aren’t, Lynette.” He sighs. “It is what it is. Perhaps I’m going about things in the wrong way.”

“I’m going to tell you the same thing I told Sara Jane. I was like you once. Lost, confused, a piece of shit.”

“A piece of shit?”

“What I’m saying is, Johnny, maybe you just need something or someone to believe in.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I do research. Fight me.


End file.
